


Proxy

by earis



Category: 2Cellos, Smooth Criminal - 2Cellos (Music Video)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earis/pseuds/earis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stjepan and Luka's fight ends badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proxy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).



> For Jain for Yuletide 2012. Some strong language.

I. Jansa

A grey rain fell. It rattled against the windows, muffled the beeping of the machines and the chatter of the nurses’ station. Jansa looked at the man (boy, really) in the bed. She tried to feel guilty, but mostly, she was too tired. 

She needed a smoke. Fuck willpower. She left the room, closing the door softly behind her. The man slept on.

When Jansa left the hospital, the rain was coming down fiercely. She huddled under the smoker’s awning, away from the main entrance, and lit her cigarette. She breathed in the smoke, and wallowed in the comforting burn. 

She sighed, and watched the smoke fade into the air. 

Then she smiled. She wasn’t done with him, not for a while yet. She had promised and she could still manage this, both of them, together. They just needed a nudge. She turned and ran back to the main doors of the hospital, her cigarette drowned in a puddle. She took the stairs two at a time, and made her assured way to the nurse’s station. 

The attending nurse looked up. “Can I help you?”

Jansa smiled. “There’s been a mix-up with some paperwork for the patient in room 331 A.” She held the nurse’s eyes and smiled, “I know that you can help me straighten this out.”

II. Stjepan

His cell phone rang. Stjepan looked down, it was the hospital. He swallowed, and answered. “Hello. This is he.”

Apparently, Luka was out of surgery. “How did it go?” he asked.

“The surgery was successful, but you’re going to need to come in.”

Stjepan blinked. “Excuse me? You need me?”

“You are the patient’s medical proxy,” said the man. “You need to speak to Luka’s doctor in the morning.”

“But-“

The nurse hung up before Stjepan could finish his protest. Luka’s medical proxy? There must be some mistake. Stjepan stood up, or at least he tried to. Okay, first, he had to regain some bit of sobriety.

Stjepan settled back into his chair. Water was all the way on the other side of the room. He closed his eyes. Last night, the bar, the fight, Stjepan couldn’t help but remember. He remembered the weight of Luka’s body against his, muscles straining together, their breaths on each other’s cheek. Stjepan rubbed his arm. Luka’s fingers had bruised his flesh through his jacket, and the marks still hurt. Stjepan had been trapped there, in the flexing and tensing, in the struggle for purchase, totally possessed by the desire to throw the other man down, to see the hot blood flow, oh god, the blood . . .

Stjepan groaned and clutched his head in his shaking hands. But he couldn’t escape the memories.

He had barely even noticed Jansa storming out of the bar, or felt her hands trying to thrust them apart. That was strange, because is had been her laugh, her excited, loving laugh, that had angered him. His parents had warned him about her kind. ‘Fickle,’ they had said, ‘and greedy and vain.’ He spat. They should have also said ‘faithless’. 

Her laugh. He closed his eyes and remembered the first time he had heard it. He had reached up and tried to kiss her as she sat across his lap, and she had ducked out of the way and laughed. He hadn’t been angry, just entranced as she leaned over him and smiled. Her hair had fallen over them both and had shadowed her eyes.

“You have to want this,” she teased.

Stjepan ran his hands up her thighs. “I asked you out, didn’t I?”

Jansa licked her lips, “That’s one.”

He leaned forward and kissed her right between her breasts. “I asked you up here, right?”

She ran her hand through his hair, “That’s two.”

He brought his face lower and lower, placing a trail of kisses over her shirt. “I want you, all of you, more than anything in the world.”

She tightened her hand in his hair and tilted his face up to hers. “That’s three, and I promise to be yours, and that you will get what you want,” she said and kissed him. 

Oh Jansa, thought Stjepan. Screw you and your laugh and your broken promises. 

 

III. Jansa

Jansa lay on the floor and lit another cigarette. The smoke entered her and left with her breath, rising above her body in circles and coils, joining the cloud hovering above her. In the gloom, her eyes glittered and her teeth flashed.  
In the smoke she searched out her memories of her musician, Stjepan, so much talent and just a little more pride. The last time she and he had met, before the bar, when was it? 

Ah, yes, in the practice room. After Geneva. Jansa remembered the texture of the walls, the heaviness of them as they cradled the music within and pushed away all sound from without. She had slipped in and listened quietly to the sounds of Stjepan’s cello, low and pure. She gave into her love for him, admiring the quickness of his hands on the bow and the strings. She longed to stand between the spread of his  
legs, to rest her hands on his neck and shoulders, which were tense and tight, and take away all fear and pain.

Instead, she did her job.

“You play it well,” she said.

Stjepan stopped playing and turned to face her. “That’s not what they said in Geneva.”

“I’m sick and tired of hearing about Geneva,” she retorted. And she was. Geneva was where a panel of dry, hypercritical old judges had undone all of her hard work. 

“So am I,” said Stjepan, laying down his bow. “But somehow, whenever I try to sleep, I see myself on the stage there, being told that I’m not good enough.” He placed his cello gently in its case.

“You placed fourth,” she reminded him. “That’s hardly ‘not good enough’.”

“It’s not what I worked for,” he said. “And it’s not what you promised.”

“I promised you fame and glory, not first place at some rinky-dink competition in some backwater European city.”

Stjepan looked at her, angry beyond reason. “Oh, thank you!” he said. “I’m so glad that I’ve lost because now I am draped in all this motherfucking glory!”

Jansa shook her head. “You need to forget about stupid competitions, all that jumping though hoops to make some old men happy. That’s not how to get ahead right now.”

“And what do you suggest?”

Jansa gestured at his cello. “Play some music that people actually like. Stop with the Shostakovich and the Dvorak and the Faure, it gets you nowhere. Play something else.”

“Like Mozart?” he offered. “How lovely! And then I could play some John Williams, and round it off with a suite of Disney tunes!”

“It would certainly raise your profile” she bit back.

“I’m a virtuoso!” Stjepan shouted.

“Yes, you are,” Jansa agreed. “You’re a virtuoso in a world of virtuosos, competing for same bits of affection from a shrinking audience.”

Stjepan shook his finger, “My professors –“

“Your professors are idiots,” Jansa cut him off. “They don’t know what you’re capable of. They want to make you just another cellist in a symphony, one cog in a huge machine.”

“Maybe I want to be just another cellist in a symphony,” Stjepan said. “In some rinky-dink city like London, or New York, or Berlin.”

“And throw away everything you have?” Jansa said. “You’re young, handsome, sexy, dynamic! You need to be in front of the world, not hiding in a huge orchestra.”

“Maybe I just want to play music,” said Stjepan.

“You want to play music?” asked Jansa. “You don’t need to do that in London or Berlin. Move back to Dubrovnik, or Pula, they have music there.”

Stjepan glared at her.

“Remember what I promised you that night,” Jansa pleaded. “Remember what you wanted.”

“I wanted to play music,” said Stjepan.

“That’s not what you wanted,” said Jansa.

“I wanted to be a famous classical cellist,” he said.

“Again, wrong,” she replied.

Stjepan sighed. “I wanted to change the world with my music.”

“Exactly,” said Jansa. “And that is what I’m going to help you do.”

Stjepan slumped in his chair. She peered into his heart and saw the burning there, the same flame that she had seen their first night  
together.

“Open yourself up,” she pleaded. “Let the world see you, and all your passion and fire. It doesn’t matter what you play, just get out there and show the world what you can do.”

“That’s specific,” he replied.

“You want specifics?” Jansa asked. “Fine, here’s one. Collaborate with someone. Do a duet.”

“Who?”  
Jansa paused, “Luka Sulic.”

Stjepan stood up, eyes blazing. “Luka Sulic? Luka, took first place at Geneva, Sulic?”

Jansa kept her gaze level and he stalked towards her.

“Never in a million years would I collaborate with him?” Stjepan vowed.

“He’s like you,” Jansa said. “He’s got that spark inside him, that yearning for glory, you could go great things with him.”

“So you prefer him to me as well,” said Stjepan. “Fuck you, Jansa! You come in here, simpering about how good I am and how I don’t need the judges’ motherfucking approval, and then you turn around and tell me that I should hook up with the one who has all the approval.”

“Stjepan –“, Jansa said.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” ranted Stjepan. “You have no idea how things are done. We work and play and practice and perform and it’s agony and you don’t know. Your only talent is promising things you can’t deliver!”

“Stupid boy,” Jansa warned. “You’re the one with no idea about how things work. I’ve raised up lesser talents and I’ve seen greater passed over time and time again, and crumble to dust. Our deal is simple. You have the talent; I inspire. I promised to help you, but you also promised that you’d follow my advice. So you need to trust my decision, get over your fear, and fulfill your promise. And if you have a problem with that, then we need to rethink this deal.” 

And with that, Jansa had walked out.

 

IV. Luka

Luka flew. He raced through the sky, trying to touch every star. But the stars wouldn’t stay still. They moved, swirling and twirling and evading his reach. He could hear them laugh, not unkindly. “Chase us, boy,” they said. “Chase us!”

It was a delight to fly, to peak and plummet through an entire spectrum of color and light. He cheered as he followed the stars, faster and faster, finally free. When he did manage to catch one, it would sing a note. Some stars, the big, bright, blue ones, sang high and sweet. Others, especially the shimmering golden disks, were low and pure. Luke grabbed a pulsing pink spinner and it let out a trill.

“You sing so beautifully,” Luka exclaimed.

“Thank you, thank you,” said the pink star.

“Could I play a song with you?” asked Luka.

“Yes, please!” said the star.

Another star, a sparkly orange globe came whizzing by and heard them, “Me too!” it shouted and joined the music.

Luka tapped the pink one, then the orange, alternating between trill and bell, lilt and low. The other stars heard, and came in close, clamoring to be played as well. Luka laughed at their antics and reached out for them with his right hand. He ran his fingers through a school of tiny greens, releasing a brassy tumble down the octave. 

Luka and the stars cavorted together, flying and singing. Now the stars crowded him, carrying his body along with them, ducking and rushing to fall into his grasp or to brush against his fingers. Luka was swept up in the joy of unbridled sound and started to touch without discretion, exalting in the cacophony of notes and colors.

Suddenly he stroked a star and it sang a slow, sad notes. Surprised, Luka looked down and saw the star, a dark, red heart with a fire burning at its center. He stroked it again, and again it sang sorrowfully.

“What’s wrong, little star?” he asked.

When the star spoke, it was soft. “Where’s your other hand?”

“My other hand?”

“You play us with only one hand,” explained the star.

Luka looked back and saw his left arm. It ended at the wrist.

All of the stars winked out, taking the color with them. Luka looked at the place where his hand was supposed to be and screamed. As he  
screamed, he fell.

 

V. Stjepan

“You’re not hearing me,” Stjepan said. “There’s no way that I’m this guy’s medical proxy.”

The nurse was unimpressed. “This is your signature?”

Stjepan looked again at the papers in front of him. “Yes,” he allowed, frustrated. “That certainly looks like my signature, but I didn't sign that.”

“So you don’t know the patient?” 

“No, I do know him,” Stjepan explained. “He’s a . . .” What was Luka? Rival? Colleague? “He’s a friend,” he finished. “I brought him here  
last night, after he . . . got hurt.”

“You signed him in?” asked the nurse as he flipped through the sign-in book.

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t sign his medical proxy form?”

"Exactly!” said Stjepan. This would all be over soon, and he could go back home.

The nurse took the sign-in sheet from the night before and placed it next to the medical proxy form. “These signatures look the same.”

Stjepan didn’t even look at the papers this time. “I don’t know what to tell you, but that’s not my signature.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said the nurse, his eyes narrow. “But someone needs to talk to Luka’s doctor and you’re the only person we have on file.”

Stjepan shook his head, “Can’t Luka talk to his own doctor?”

“Actually, he can’t right now,” said the nurse. “He hasn’t recovered from the anesthesia yet.”

Stjepan was beyond frustration at this point. “So wait until he wakes up!” he shouted.

The entire waiting room stopped and looked at him. Stjepan felt his face blush with embarrassment.

“There’s no call to yell at me,” warned the nurse.

“I’m sorry.”

“You can see how this is confusing for everyone involved,” he continued. “You say you know the patient, that you brought him to the hospital when he was hurt, and that you signed him in. But you say that you didn’t sign his medical proxy form, even though your signature is on the form.”

Stjepan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Basically, yes.”

“I understand that it can be overwhelming.”

Stjepan looked back up at the nurse. “Excuse me?”

“Making major medical decisions for a friend or family member can be extremely stressful,” he explained. “But you have to be there for Luka right now.”

“Major medical decisions?” repeated Stjepan.

“Before he went into surgery, both Luka and you agreed that you’d be his proxy should the need arise,” said the nurse. “So you need to trust Luka’s decision, get over your fear, and fulfill your promise.”

Stjepan looked up at the nurse, surprised. Those were Jansa’s words. Could she have . . .? Yes, yes she could have, that meddling bitch. He could just walk out right now - except for Luka. Luka was hurt and it was his fault. Maybe he did need to be here.

“Okay,” he said to the nurse. “I’ll talk to the doctor.”

Which was how he found himself following Luka’s doctor away from the waiting room and into her office. 

Once they had sat down, the doctor looked at Stjepan with concern. “Luka’s not doing as well as we had hoped.”  
Something in Stjepan’s stomach twisted.

“When you brought him in, one of the tendons in his left hand was severed. The initial surgery repaired the tendon, but there were complications.”

Stjepan’s mouth was dry with fear as he spoke, “Can he play?”

“Pardon?”

Stjepan breathed in, “Luka’s a cellist. World-class. Amazing. Can he still play?”

The doctor’s mouth was firmly set. “These complications I mentioned, they’ll limit the range of motion in his left hand.”

Stjepan felt like throwing up. “Is there anything you can do?”

“We can do another surgery,” explained the doctor. “It’s a newer procedure, but if it goes well, and if Luka follows his physical therapy schedule, he should regain all range of motion.”

She started telling Stjepan the details of the surgery. He nodded along. “Fine,” he said when she was done. “Do it.”

When the doctor left the room, she brought Stjepan to a different waiting room. Stjepan sat and looked at his own hands, trying to imagine life without one of his best tools. He thought back to the bar. After Jansa had left him and Luka struggling together, a strange joy had filled him, a feeling wild, and weird, and powerful. It had caused him to lift Luka up, like a wrestler might, and bring him down hard against the floor of the bar. But that joy had fled, along with all his anger, when Luka had cried out in pain and Stjepan had seen the shard of glass from the broken cup buried in his hand. Stjepan closed his eyes against the memory of cradling Luka’s wounded hand, the hot blood flowing over them both. When he opened them again, his cheeks were wet.

 

VI. Luka

Luke knew that he was dreaming this time. He knew because his hand, his left hand, kept flickering in and out of existence. He sat in his chair and watched his hand appear and disappear.

“Does it hurt?”

Luke didn’t look up, but he knew whom it was. Another feature of the dream, he realized. “Not really,” he answered. “Well, it doesn’t hurt, but it does hurt me.” It hurt him a lot.

Jansa took his hand, the one hurting him, in her soft ones. “We’re doing everything we can for you,” she promised.

“And for my hand?” asked Luka.

“And for your hand.”

Luke looked at her then. “Did I scare the stars?”

Jansa met his eyes, and he saw the pain there.

Luka looked down, ashamed. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No, you didn’t scare them,” said Jansa, kindly. “They’re afraid they scared you. They feel guilty.”

“Oh,” he said. Luka didn’t want the stars to feel guilty. Guilt was so heavy; it could stop them from singing. “Tell them I’m fine. That I’ll be fine. Don’t tell them about my hand.”

Jansa nodded and kept stroking the hand that was there sometimes, even when it wasn’t.

Luka looked around. “This is a weird room,” he realized.

“Hmm . . .” said Jansa.

“It’s got no windows, and no doors.”

“Hard to enter and hard to leave,” agreed Jansa.

Luka looked up, “And it’s got a balcony, like it’s a theater, and decorations.” He gestured with his good hand. “But there is no stage,  
just tons of chairs.” He reached out and petted one of them, stroking the red velvet. 

Jansa shrugged. “There is a stage, you just have to see it.”

Luka tried. “All I see is audience,” he confessed. “No stage.”

Even with Jansa there, his hand still hurt. The pain was getting to be a lot now, spreading through his arms and legs, tightening his stomach and lungs. His head screamed; his heart pounded.

“The stage is here,” said Jansa. “I promise.”

Luke yanked his hand from hers’. “Unless everything is opposite,” he said, “and the audience performs for itself, then there is no stage.”

Jansa smiled. “Almost there, young man. We’re almost there.”

“Whose we?” asked Luka.

“You, me, the stars.”

“I was in a bar with you,” said Luka. “Is the bar the stage?”

“It could be.” Jansa stood up.

“Are you leaving?”

“We’re almost done, so I should leave soon.”

“Do you have to leave?” asked Luka. “Do you want to?”

Jansa smiled and her teeth were like knives. 

“You look like a girl,” mused Luka, “but you’re not, are you?”

Jansa stopped moving and Luka saw it all then, the smoke around her, the breath of her body, the radiance of her hair, and the spark of fire where her eyes should have been.

“Wake up,” she commanded.

 

VII. Stjepan and Luka

Stjepan was reading a magazine where they told him that Luka was out of surgery. He followed the doctor to Luka’s recovery room, and saw Luka sitting up, awake.

“Hey,” said Luka.

“Hey,” Stjepan replied. “Uh, welcome back.”

“Thanks.” Luke looked down at his hands. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Stjepan, but why are you here?”

“Apparently, you picked me to be your medical proxy.”

Luka looked at his, brows furrowed. “Again, don’t take this the wrong way, but there’s no way I would have done that.”

“That’s what I kept telling them!” exclaimed Stjepan. “But no one would listen to me.”

“I’m confused.”

Stjepan nodded. “They have our signatures, both yours and mine, on the paperwork, but I don’t remember putting it there.”

Luka stared. “That’s really weird.”

“I think it was a deliberate mix-up,” explained Stjepan.

“Still confused.”

Stjepan sighed. “Okay, what I’m going to tell you will explain things, sort of.”

Luka nodded.

“You know my girlfriend, Jansa,” said Stjepan.

Luke shifted uncomfortably, “Look, Stjepan,” he said. “She asked me out to that bar, not the other way around.”

Stjepan waved away Luka’s apology. “That’s not the point. The point is, well, she’s not my girlfriend.” Stjepan took a deep breath. “She’s my muse.”

Luka looked at him blankly.

“My muse,” Stjepan explained. “She inspires me and helps me with my music.”

“I understand the concept of a muse,” said Luka. “But there’s two types of muses; there’s the muse who is a regular person who inspires you, and then there is the mythological muse.”

“Yes,” said Stjepan. “She’s that one – the second one.”

“Huh,” said Luka.

“Surprised?” asked Stjepan.

“Less than you’d think,” answered Luka. “I had some weird dreams when I was in surgery.”

“She does like to meddle,” said Stjepan.

Luka thought about it for a moment. “This makes the whole thing in the bar a lot clearer.”

Stjepan winced, “My reaction was pretty extreme.”

“Not just that,” said Luka. “She kept talking to me about music and glory and taking control of my destiny.”

“That does sound like her,” said Stjepan, sadly.

“But she also talked a lot about you.” Luka peered at him, “it was almost like she wanted us to play together.”

Stjepan nodded. “I think she did. But I think I ruined it.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry Luka. I’m sorry for losing control and  
fighting with you. I’m sorry for blaming you for something you know nothing about. And I’m sorry for hurting you, for what happened to your hand.” Stjepan felt himself start to cry, and did nothing to stop it.

“Stjepan,” said Luka. “I’m fine. It’s okay. The doctor said that as long as I do my physical therapy, my hand would be fine.”

Stjepan blinked away the tears. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, it is.” Luke smiled. His smile was rather brilliant. “The doctor also said that you told them to do the second surgery.”

“They said that there were complications,” Stjepan began.

“Thanks,” said Luka, cutting him off.

They sat together for a moment. Stjepan watched Luka fidget with the bandages on his hand, admiring the strength of his fingers now that they weren’t leaving bruises on his arm.

“You know, Stjepan, before our fight, I was telling Jansa that I really admire the way you play.”

“I like your playing too,” Stjepan admitted. “Even when you beat me in Geneva.”

Luka laughed. “God, you have got to get over Geneva. Geneva meant nothing! You do know why you placed fourth, right?”

Stjepan shook his head.

Luka smiled, “You were too expressive when you played. The judges prefer a more reserved approach.”

“Ah,” said Stjepan. “So, should I modify my performance for next time?”

“Are you an idiot?” asked Luka, throwing up his hands. “The audience loved it; and all the other performers were crowded backstage to watch. I couldn’t take my eyes off you!”

Stjepan blushed. “I didn’t realize that.”

“Jansa was right,” said Luka, crossing his arms and leaning back. “You really have no idea how great you could be.”

Stjepan snorted, “Not you, too. Next you’ll be telling me that I should collaborate with you and stop playing Shostakovich and Faure.”

“Well, you don’t have to play so much Shostakovich,” said Luka. “People don’t like getting depressed every time they listen to music. Throw in something more fun every now and then.”

“Mozart?” asked Stjepan, sarcastically.

Luka rolled his eyes, “God, no. I was thinking about the Vivaldi sonatas, or maybe something more modern.”

“Like Xenakis?” asked Stjepan.

“Like Metallica,” answered Luka. “’Enter Sandman’ is actually quite interesting.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. 

Stjepan thought about it. “What about Guns n’ Roses?”

Luka grinned, “Or Nirvana.”

“U2,” offered Stjepan.

“Michael Jackson,” countered Luka, and they both laughed at the thought.

 

VIII. Jansa

She looked through the door and saw Stjepan and Luka laughing together. Their voices mingled, and harmonized. Jansa smiled. Her work was basically done.

“They look happy,” said a voice by her ear.

Jansa turned and saw a woman dressed like a queen, with ribbons in her hair and songs trailing from her fingers. “Boza,” she whispered and bowed her head in reverence. 

“The Shamhat approach,” said the goddess. “I haven’t seen that one in a long time.”

“It was more of an accident than a cohesive strategy,” admitted the muse.

“Well, it worked.” The goddess looked at her servant. “Are you ready to go? There’s a painter in Dakar who is trying to get over the death of her lover.”

Jansa took a last, long look at her two cellists.

“Maybe the boy was right,” said the goddess. “He asked if you wanted to go. Do you want to?" 

"Boza, my part in this is over. The rest is up to the two of them." But even as she spoke, Jansa could feel a desire that she hadn't felt in centuries, to stay and to work and to see the end of a thing instead of just the beginning.

You can stay if you wish, Jansa,” said the goddess.

Jansa was startled. “What about the painter?”

“Her fire is quite bright,” said the goddess. “The new recruit, Nandi, can take her.”

Jansa bowed deeply. “Thank you, Boza.” When she righted herself, the goddess was gone. She opened the door and entered the room.

“Hello boys,” she said.

“Jansa!” said Luka. 

Stjepan stood and stared at her, hopeful and afraid.

Jansa opened her arms to him and he buried himself in her embrace. “I thought you’d be gone,” he whispered into her ear.  
She kissed his cheeks. “I thought so too, but it looks like I get to stick around for a little while.” She stepped back. “For both you and Luka,” she explained.

“You did promise,” reminded Stjepan.

“So did you,” said Jansa. Stjepan smiled and looked at Luka. Jansa saw how his eyes immediately traced the line of Luka’s throat and rested on his lips. 

She grinned. This was going to be fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, thank you for this prompt. I heartily enjoyed writing for this fandom.  
> Secondly, the prompt urged me to pick my favorite interpretation of the music video and run with it. My favorite viewing, which has little justification in the source text, posits that the woman in the vid is actually a muse.  
> Thirdly, I have deliberately not touched the details of Stjepan and Luka's careers before the Smooth Criminal video and the creation of 2Cellos. I know that they competed with each other, but I have no idea if they ever were in a competition in Geneva and in what rank they placed.  
> Finally, I feel that I should clarify that I love Shostakovich's Cello Concerto No. 1. Even if it is depressing.


End file.
